The Harvest of Years Part 15

"Truly, Hal," he said, "you make a capital picture. Courting, eh?"

"Call it that if you please; we are very near in spirit, thanks to the Father."

The thought of work came over me, and I left them to help about getting supper. To be in Hal's confidence and to feel the trust he reposed in me had made me very happy. Precious indeed did this seem to me, and if all brothers and sisters were as near, how much of evil would be averted.

Young men might find at home the love and society they need, and less temptation and fewer penalties to pay would be the good result.

Mother's absence was nearly at an end, and father had gone on Sat.u.r.day to Aunt Phebe's to spend the Sabbath, and was to bring mother back on Monday.

Sabbath evening Hal went over to Deacon Snow's, Clara was in her room writing to Louis, Ben reading in the kitchen, and I was left with Mr.

Benton in Hal's room. This night was never to be forgotten, for although from time to time I had been forced to notice the great change in his manner toward me, I was unprepared for what occurred, and unconscious that he had so misunderstood and perverted my motives in that fated talk. I cannot tell you all he said, nor how he said it, but I was thoroughly confused and startled by his protestations, and could only say:

"Mr. Benton, I do not desire to hear this; I cannot understand it; you have been mistaken," etc.

To all of which he replied as if deeply pained, and I believed in his sorrow and despised myself. I could not and did not tell him of Louis, for when I thought of it, it seemed too sacred, and he had no right to this knowledge. I was overwhelmed with strange and unpleasant feelings; there was no satisfaction in the thought of having heard these declarations; it was an experience I would fain have avoided. His talk to Clara, too, came to my aid, and rallying a little, I said:

"It is not long since you felt you could not live without the love of Clara's heart; how strangely all your feelings must have changed. This perplexes me, Mr. Benton."

He raised his head from his hands--he had been sitting some moments in a despairing att.i.tude, evidently struggling with great emotion--and answered:

"It is natural that this should perplex you, and I am prepared for it.

Years of lonely waiting and yearning for the love of a true heart, have, perhaps, made me seize too readily on any promise of hope and sympathy.

I was certainly fascinated with Mrs. Desmonde, and told her of my feelings, prematurely as it proved, for the more I knew of her, the more convinced I grew of her unfitness, I might almost say for earth, although she still is beautiful to me. But you, Emily, are a woman of strength and will, of a strength that will grow, for your years do not yet number twenty-one; these years have already given you maturity and power, and I respect and admire you, and I believe I could worship you if you would let me."

This was stranger talk than I could endure, and I broke out pa.s.sionately:

"You need not ever try; I do not want you to, for I shall never love you, and you are also old enough to be my father." I cannot tell why I should have made this great mistake for which I immediately reproached myself.

The lines in Mr. Benton's face grew a little sharper, and the gleam of his eye for a second was like a fierce light, and he answered gravely:

"My years do number more, but in my heart I stand beside you. I would have waited longer to tell you, but I am going away." I looked wonderingly. "A friend is ill. I go to him; then to Chicago to see some of our statuettes, and then if your parents will board me here, shall return for the summer, unless," and his eyes dropped hopelessly, his voice trembled, "unless," raising his eyes to mine appealingly, "I shall be too unwelcome a friend to remain."

Dear Hal and his art rose before me, and pity and love caused me to say:

"Oh, come back, Mr. Benton! Hal needs you."

"We will consider then that we are friends, Emily?"

"Certainly," I said, glad enough to pa.s.s out of this door. Would it had been wider!

Advancing to me he took my hand, and said:

"My friend always, if I may never hope for more. I leave to-morrow morning, let us say good-bye here."

This was a strange scene for a plain country girl like Emily Minot.

Don't blame me if I was bewildered, and if I failed for a moment to think of the snake I had dreamed about: neither wonder that in this last act in Mr. Benton's drama, he seemed to have gained some power over me.

He knew, for I was no adept at concealing, that he had won some vantage ground, and that I blamed myself and pitied him.

Morning came, and he left us, and Aunt Hildy said: "Gone with his great eyes that allus remind me that still water runs deep. Can't see how Halbert and that man can be so thick together."

Matthias, who was there early, ready to go to work, said to himself as the stage rolled away: "De Lord bless me, if dat man don't mos' allus set me on de thinkin' groun. Pears like he's got two sides to hisself, um, um."

I heard this absent talk of Matthias', and also Aunt Hildy's words, and I marvelled, saying in my heart, "Emily Minot, what will be done next?"

CHAPTER XIII.

PERPLEXITIES.

We were all glad to see mother, and she had enjoyed her visit, which had improved her much.

"Hope you haint done any work?" said Aunt Hildy.

Mother said nothing, but when her trunk was unpacked she brought forth, in triumph, a specimen of her handiwork.

"Aunt Hildy," I called, "come and give her a scolding."

She came, and with Clara and myself, was soon busy in trying to find out how the mat--for this was the name of the article--was made.

"How on airth did you do it, and what with?"

"Why don't you find out?" said mother.

"For only one reason, _I can't_," said Aunt Hildy.

"It is made of pieces of old flannel and carpet that Phebe got hold of somehow. We cut them bias and sewed them on through the middle, the foundation being a canvas bag, leaving the edges turned up."

"Well, I declare," said Aunt Hildy; "but you had no right to work."

My mind was sorely troubled, and when, in about a week after Mr.

Benton's departure, I received a long letter from him, I felt worse than before. I blamed myself greatly, and still these wrong steps I had taken were all only sins of omission. It was for Clara's sake; for Hal's sake; and last, but not least, I could not say to Mr. Benton, as I would have wished to, that my love was in Louis' keeping, for you remember I had met Louis' advances with fear, and he had said, "I will wait one year."

How could I then say positively what I did not know? Louis was growing older, and my fears might prove all real, and I should only subject myself to mortification, and at the same time, as I really believed, cause Mr. Benton sorrow.

"Poor Emily Minot," I said, "you must condole with yourself unless you tell Halbert," and I resolved to do this at the first opportunity.

Clara was delighted at Mr. Benton's absence. She went singing about our house all the time, and the roses actually tried to find her cheeks. Our days seemed to grow more filled and the hearts and hands were well occupied.

Hal was busy with his work and hopes, and I had been over with him to see Mary, and had looked with them at the picture of their coming days.

I enjoyed it greatly. They were not going to be in haste, and Mary's father was to talk with our people concerning the best mode of beginning life. I think some people end it just where they hoped to begin. Mary had a step-mother, who was thrifty, and that was all; her heart had never warmed to infant caresses, and she would never know the love that can be felt only for one's own. It was sad for her, and I can see now how she suffered for this well-spring of joy which had never been found.

To Mary she was kind, but she could not give her the love she needed.

Mary was timid. Hal always called her his "fawn." It was a good name. He made a beautiful statuette of her little self and christened it Love's Fawn, and while he never really meant it should go into strange hands, it crossed the Atlantic before he did, and received high commendation--beautiful Mary Snow.

Instead of my visit helping to open my secret to Hal, it seemed to close the door upon it, and only a sigh came to my lips when I essayed to speak of it. Once he asked me tenderly as we walked home:

"It cannot be our happiness that hurts you, Emily?"

"No--no," I said, "it gives me great joy to see you so happy."